The First Steps In Life
by booknerdhere
Summary: Sherlock Holmes's life had been absolutely perfect until he had started school. Since then, his life has been a living hell. He had no friends, his mother isn't doing as well as she could be, his father expects everything from him, the kids at school pick on him... Even Mycroft doesn't care about him anymore. Will he ever find a friend, or will he forever be a lonely soul, venturi
1. Chapter 1

**Hi guys! I know, I know... its been ages since I've updated anything... I've been busy and caught up with... life XD. But I'm hoping to get back into writing. I miss it. I'll try and work on "Not What Was Expected" and "Fate's Design"... but it may be kinda hard since I'm not in touch with MidnightStar anymore... but this story is the start of what will hopefully be a series about Sherlock Holmes' life... I'm calling it the Life's Not Fair series... so enjoy!**

**DISCLAIMER- I do not own any of the characters from the BBC series "Sherlock"**

* * *

The earliest memory he had was him sitting by his brother. They were both curled up by the fire. He was 3, and his brother was 10. They were sitting there by the fire in companionable silence, with Mummy and Father sitting on the couch, Father's arm wrapped around Mummy's shoulder. They were drinking cocoa and eating cookies. They were allowed to stay up late that night. Until ten in fact. That made him feel like a big boy. When it was time for bed he had complained. He had wanted to stay up and see Santa when he came and delivered the presents. But Mummy had said no and urged him to go to sleep. She said "The faster you fall asleep the sooner morning will come."

That had been when his life was perfect. When everything was happy, when he hadn't a care in the work. Things were different now.

Sherlock woke to the sound of his alarm clock ringing. Blinking awake he climbed out of bed and walked to the bathroom to brush his teeth, wash his face and comb his dark brown, curly hair. He put on his uniform and lugged his backpack downstairs, dropping it by the door. Pulling his shoes on as he went, he shuffled into the dining room where their maid Elizabeth served him a bowl of hot cinnamon oatmeal. He scarfed down his food and glanced over at Mycroft, who was reading the newspaper.

Sherlock despised his older brother. Mycroft never seemed to have time for him anymore. It was always "Not now Sherlock, I have homework" or "Not now Sherlock I'm working on something" or "Not now Sherlock I'm too tired". Apparently because he was in secondary school he couldn't hang out with a six year old. But whatever. He knew he was smarter than Mycroft anyways. He was already in year three of primary school, when technically he should be in year one.

Sherlock got up from the table and grabbed his backpack, walking out the door after hugging his Mummy goodbye. He walked down the driveway of the Holmes mansion and ventured down the sidewalk, Mycroft following on his bike. He walked the mile to his school: The International School of London. It was an expensive private school, Father wouldn't allow them to go to a public school.

Sherlock walked into the school and put his backpack on his hook, already dreading the school day. He walked into his classroom. The day dragged by, boring as ever. He suffered through science, English, physical education, French class and social studies. He sighed in relief when the bell rang and put his things away before trudging into the cafeteria. He went through the line, watching in disgust as the lunch ladies piled the horrific food onto his tray. Today it was cold cucumber soup, stale bread, and green beans. Appalling.

He carried his tray to the table in the corner, which everyone has appointed "The Freak's table". He sat alone as usual, silently eating his food and summing up some of the people at the other tables. The girl with the red hair had three small dogs, a mother who was a nurse, and a father who was an engineer. The boy across from her was poor, had three older brothers and a single mom who struggled to make money by sewing and knitting things. The only reason he was at this school was because his uncle sent him here.

When he finished his meal he put his tray on top of the growing stay and headed into the fairly empty hall. He was headed toward his backpack to get his book when someone yelled from behind "Hey pipsqueak!" He scowled and ignored the comment, knowing it came from Vince Tomlinson, a boy in year five who liked to pick on younger kids, especially him.

"Hey pipsqueak! Answer me!"

"What do you want Vince!" He whipped around with a scowl. "Hurry and say what you have to say or else I'll tell Mrs. Hawthorne you have a crush on her!"

The older boy glared "You wouldn't dare."

"You bet I would!"

"GET HIM BOYS!" Vince screamed to his two cronies Garrett and Harley. The two boys charged at him and pinned him to the wall by his arms, holding on tightly so he couldn't escape. Vince strode up "You're gonna get it freak." He punched Sherlock in the stomach twice, and then across the face. Garrett and Harley dropped him, and he curled into a ball, holding his hand up to protect himself from the kicks. He finally managed to stumble to his feet and punch the year fiver in the nose. Vince screamed in pain like a little girl, which alerted the teachers. Both of them were sent to the principals office, and then Sherlock was sent to the nurse.

The nurse cleaned the cut on his cheek, and said he was lucky that he only had the cut and a few bruises on his stomach. He ignored her and stalked to art class. Art was his favorite class. Mrs. Flharity was the only teacher who liked him and understood him. She was the only one who cared. When he sat down she glanced at him with a pitying look, and then turned back to the class as she explained shading.

After art Sherlock had social education, music, and drama. All three he hated. He was grateful when the day was over. He put his books and binder in his backpack and walked down the street, back to his house at 538 Park Place London, England.

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**Please R&R! Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter! Please R&R! Thanks!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from the BBC series "Sherlock"

* * *

Sherlock was doing his homework in his room when his Mummy walked in and sighed.

"Sherlock darling... Mummy has to leave for a while... A month. My job calls for me at another hospital, in Paris."

"What!? Mommy! You can't go! You can't!" He looked at his Mummy with sad eyes "P-please don't leave me Mummy."

His Mummy sighed and sat on his bed, pulling him into her arms "Its okay honey. Its only for a month. Your Father and Mycroft will take perfect care of you. I promise." His Mummy led him downstairs for dinner. It was Sherlock's favorite meal, beef stew, but it didn't brighten his mood at all.

He trudged up the stairs and sat on his bed, reading "Treasure Island" until he fell asleep. In the middle of the night his Mummy came, tucking him in under his covers and kissing him upon his brow.

"Goodnight little one. Sweet dreams. I will see you in a month's time."

* * *

The next day, at the end of school, Sherlock ended up in the corner of a stall in the boy's bathroom, sniffling and trying to hold back tears. Vince and his cronies had once more preyed on him, saying he stole Vince's Lego airplane, even though he hadn't. He fell silent when he heard the door open and watched the footsteps walk across the room.

_Its Vince, he's coming back to hurt me again. He still thinks I did it... he's gonna come in here and corner me! _Sherlock burst into tears, cowering in the corner of the stall "Go away, go away. Please leave me alone. I didn't steal your Legos!"

The feet outside the stall paused and Sherlock realized he hadn't locked the door. The door was pulled open and he tensed... That wasn't Vince! It was the new kid that had come today! He had brown hair and chocolate brown eyes, and looked surprised and concerned to see him in the stall.

"A-are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded, a little too quickly. The boy gave him a skeptical look and came over. Ignoring Sherlock's protests he lifted up the edge of his shirt and cringed when he saw the bruises. "What happened?"

"It was Vince... he thought I stole his Legos even though I said I didn't and he beat me up."

"Oh..." Said the boy and helped him up "I'm Charlie. Charlie Anderson. What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"I see... you don't seem to be very popular around here... a lot of kids have told me to stay away. They said you were a freak and you were really creepy... but you don't seem creepy. I mean... you can only be in what... Reception? Year one?"

Sherlock shook his head "No! I'm in year three! Same grade as you!"

Charlie gaped "You're in third year!?"

Sherlock nodded "Yeah. I skipped a few years... that's part of why people make fun of me..." he shrugs, "Anyways... it was nice to meet you." He walked off, glancing back at the boy before walking into the hall.

* * *

The rest of the school week went by. Charlie sat with him at lunch, talked to him at recess, even invited him over to his house that weekend. Sherlock went home Friday evening, eager to ask his Father if he could go. He ran up the stairs and put his backpack in his room then scurried over his Father's office, knocking softly.

"Come in," grumbled the deep voice.

Sherlock entered carefully, closing the door behind him and waiting for his Father to acknowledge his presence.

"Yes?"

"Uh-Um Father-"

"Stop stuttering!"

"Oh, yes of course sir... anyways, I was wondering if I could go to my friend Charlie's house this weekend? He lives on-"

"Are you even SUGGESTING you go to that boy's house!?" He slapped Sherlock across the cheek, "That boy who is not worthy of even LOOKING at us!? Of course you can't go over there! You are Holmes, and you need to start acting like one! We do not mix with the lessers!"

Sherlock nodded quickly "Y-yes sir..." And with that he dashed out of the office and up into his room. Holding back tears, he returned to his most recent experiment that had to do with moldy bread and cheese.

* * *

That evening at dinner, Sherlock was silent. Mycroft and Father were talking about one thing or another that had to do with school and politics. Sherlock didn't notice that the table had gone quiet, he was too busy scarfing down his dinner. Gosh, he was hungry. Then he felt eyes on him and looked up.

Father was staring at him with an angry expression and Mycroft was biting his lip. What had he done wrong?

"I-Is something wrong F-father?"

"_Why_ exactly do you have a paper with a phone number beside your plate, and _**why**_ are you eating like a starved pig?"

Sherlock froze. _Darn it. _He had brought Charlie's phone number down, hoping to call him, and had forgotten to put the paper in his pocket. "U-um... I'm j-just h-hungry and... thats... well... that's Charlie's phone number."

"And _who _is Charlie again?"

Sherlock looked down at his lap "M-My friend-"

"**What did I TELL you about FRIENDS!"** His father screamed "I told you that we do **NOT **mix with people that are lesser than us. Which is most of London! You will **NOT **have friends, you will **NOT **call people, and you will most certainly **NOT **go to this Charlie-freak's house!"

That was just too far.

"**CHARLIE IS NOT A FREAK!" **He screamed, standing on his chair.

_He sure had it coming now._

Father burst from his chair, and it toppled to the ground with a loud clatter. He stormed over to Sherlock and grabbed his arm tightly. Father pulled him from his cushioned chair and dragged him towards his office. Sherlock struggled to pull from the iron grip. He looked back at his brother _**"MYCROFT!"**_

As usual, there was no answer.


	3. Chapter 3

Hiya guys! Sorry this chapter took so long... its a little longer then my chapters usually are, but I'm not sure how good it it. Please give me some feedback! Thanks!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock or any of BBC's creations. Nor do I own "Ave Maria"

Sherlock screamed his brother's name again, but once more he only got a pitying look, before Mycroft turned and walked away. He was dragged into his Father's office and thrown to the floor, hitting his head on a chair. He yelped in pain, his hands automatically going to his head, exposing his body. He whimpered when there was a hard kick to his stomach.

His father grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to his feet with a rough jerk. A hand slapped across his face, and then across his backside.

"You will _never _speak of that boy _again. _**Do you hear!?"**

"Y-yes sir..."

"**WHAT WAS THAT!?" **He pushed Sherlock against the wall with a punch.

"Yes sir!"

"Good. Now leave my presence immediately." Was the growled reply.

Sherlock whimpered and stumbled out of the office. He ran out the back door and into the small patch of woods behind his house. Running through the forest, he knew exactly where to go. Right in the middle of the woods stood an ancient tree, with a tree house nestled way up high in its boughs. Sherlock clamored up the ladder that was carved into the tree and collapsed inside the tree house, sobbing softly.

There was a gasp from above him and Sherlock sat up quickly, wincing. Right there in front of him stood Charlie, looking both surprised and confused to see him.

"What are you doing here!?" Demanded Sherlock, his words coming out harsher than he had meant then to.

"I... I... I live on the other side of this patch of woods and- and I was exploring when I-I found this place! I'm sorry if I'm intruding, I didn't know this belonged to someone!"

"Oh, it-its okay. You can come here anytime you want. I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just... well..." He sighs, tears springing to his eyes once more "In pain."

Charlie frowned and walked over to Sherlock "Hey... what happened? Was it Vince again? Did he beat you up?"

"Y-yes..." Sherlock lied. He couldn't tell anyone the truth. Father would be very, very angry.

When Sherlock returned home around nine o'clock, he slowly crawled up the stairs so as not to tell his father he was home. He paused in front of Mycroft's room, thinking... then he pushed open the door, walking in.

"Mycroft-"

"Not now Sherlock, I'm busy!" Was the cold cutoff delivered by his brother. Sherlock quickly rushed to his room and fell sobbing to his bed. _Why does everyone hate me?_ He cried himself to sleep, happily embracing the darkness and dreams gratefully.

When his mother returned, Sherlock was incredibly grateful. When he heard the front door open and the familiar footsteps _pi__t__ter-patter_ across the floor, he practically flew down the stairs, wrapping his arms around the small form and burying his face in her dress. He drank in the flowery smell his mother always carried, and grinned at her light, joyful laugh.

"Well, someone's happy to see me. How have you been my dear?" Mummy set down her bags and scooped Sherlock up, holding him to her chest.

"I've been... fine Mummy." He couldn't tell Mummy about what Father had done... it would make her sad. Sherlock couldn't _stand_ seeing his mummy sad. So he wouldn't tell her... he'd never tell her.

Sherlock followed his mother around the entire day. When he was near Mummy, he was safe... Father wouldn't dare hurt him around Mummy... would he?

That night, he sat at the table and ate his dinner happily. He didn't have to worry about how he ate, or what he talked about. He told Mummy all about Charlie and school and his experiments and how much he had missed her. He talked his heart out, ignoring Mycroft and Father totally.

His mother tucked him into bed that night, and he smiled joyfully and she kissed him on the cheek. She sat on the edge of his bed and sang him a lullaby, which echoed through his deep, dreamless sleep the rest of the night.

Sherlock's happiness and joy didn't last long. A month passed by with Mummy by his side to help him when he got beat up at school, or to watch him do experiments, or listen to him play violin. She He was even allowed to have Charlie over a few times. And then Mummy had to leave again. And it wasn't for only a week. This time she'd be gone an entire two months. She wouldn't be back until school was over and summer break had started.

The day she left, Sherlock retreated to his room after saying goodbye and cried. He cried, and cried, and cried. He didn't want her to leave. Bad things always happened when she left. Now Father could do whatever he pleased with him... and Charlie couldn't come over... and there was no one to help him when Vince beat him up. Charlie always tried... but he wasn't a doctor or anything.

And so Sherlock was left alone once more. He didn't want to come out of his room ever again. Not until Mummy came back at least. But Mycroft walked in after an hour or so, clearly annoyed that he had to the bringer of news, especially since it was to his little brother.

"Father wants to hear you play."

"Play?"

"Yes, stupid, play. Play your violin. He says to be down at four." And with that Mycroft shut the door, the steps of his slightly overweight body heard as he trudged down the stairs.

Sherlock glanced at the clock. _3:37. _He had plenty of time to ready his violin and pick a song. He brought out his beautiful violin which he had received for his 6th birthday, and polished it quickly with a cloth. He then tuned it before rubbing rosin on the string of his bow.

_ 3:50. _He couldn't play for Father in his school clothes. He needed to look more professional. He threw his school clothes on the bed, and then pulled on his black dress pants and his black shoes. He dug through his messy draws until he found his purple button-up shirt. He smiled slightly and he buttoned it up. Purple was his favorite color after all. He snuck into Mycroft's room and grabbed a tie, tying it with some difficulty. He rushed back to his room, grabbed his violin and bow, and trotted down the stairs.

He knocked gently on the door of the study.

"Enter," Was the gruff reply.

Sherlock held back the anger that boiled up when the reply was called. It made it seem like Sherlock was just a maid or something. He shook off the feeling and entered nervously into the study. His Father was sitting there with his legs propped up on the desk. Sherlock stood in front of the large oaken desk and waited for the command. His father gestured for him to go, and Sherlock raised the end of the violin to his chin, readying his bow.

He started the first chords of "Ave Maria", and soon the soft music filled the entire mansion. He closed his eyes and effortlessly struck out the beautiful song, finishing with a beautiful last note and bowing. He opened his eyes and remembered that he was in his father's study... not on a stage in front of thousands of people. He searched Father's face for any sort of pride or consent. But there was nothing. Just boredom.

"I expect you to be playing professional music by the end of the school year. Now leave my sight."

Sherlock left the study, filled with disappointment and loneliness.


End file.
